


And all foundation that we've made

by 8611



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/F, Inspired by Art, M/M, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8611/pseuds/8611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The coldest day of the winter is in February, on a dead silent Sunday, any sound swallowed up by the snow and the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And all foundation that we've made

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't exist if it wasn't for [this](http://www.theverge.com/2013/8/27/4664842/sweden-reimagined-what-if-sci-fi-tech-were-real) incredibly inspiring art that I came across a week or two ago.
> 
> The title's from Metal & Dust by London Grammar.

The towers were there before them. They were even there before the town was. Originally, it was just the three of them, sentinels before the mountains. In the mornings, as the sun was coming up, people would come in from Sacramento on the high speed rail, just to work in the towers. When the sun went down they’d leave again, like rats abandoning a dying ship. 

Eventually, the town is built by the Company. They call it Beacon Hills, try to make it sound nice, as if it is a bedroom community with wide streets and big trees. Instead, the houses all look the same, and the creeping forest is flattened to put them all in. Highways are brought in to connect the houses and shops to the rest of the valley, built by bots that are left under the high, wide roads, dark and lifeless. 

They are not the first children to be born in the town, but they are part of that first generation. Their parents come other places, some in California, some in the Western States, some from other countries. 

Allison is born first, the oldest. Scott is the last. Allison is born in the spring, when there is still snow on the ground, and Scott’s birthday is almost to harvest, as fall is seeping into the leaves of the trees. Lydia and Stiles slot easily in between the two, neither of them quite summer.

Once upon a time the land was filled with crops, almond trees and citrus groves, but the climate has been too uneven for anything but GMO seeder wheat and hardy vegetables for years, scattered across a few small farms. They don’t farm much anymore, even though they still celebrate the harvest, as if it means something. 

“I wonder if it’s warm in Matsumoto right now,” Scott asks one year at harvest, when they’re sitting in a corner of the town hall gym. There are strands of LEDs strung above their heads, shaped like stars. 

“No,” Lydia says. “Their weather is similar to ours.”

Which is to say: cold, cloudy, and ashen for half the year, and blisteringly humid for the rest. 

\---

Stiles gets a job at the relay station the same summer that Scott gets one at the only large farm in the area, and they don’t see a lot of each other. Stiles spends the long months tallying data from Mars, and Scott sits in the anemic summer sun and watches over a fleet of bots that move, lumbering, through the seeder wheat. 

“Everything’s a rust bucket,” Scott says, when they’re playing video games too late one night. “I’m resetting like three bots a day, now.”

“The towers are getting new shit again,” Stiles says, sighing. “Heard it over a relay this morning.”

“I still don’t understand why a bot factory needs new bots shipped in,” Scott says, wuffing out a soft laugh, and Stiles grins. 

“Because the Company’s got more money than they know what to do with,” Stiles says. 

They drive out on one of the almost empty highways to see the delivery. The bots are huge, and they come in shiney and new on flatbeds. 

“They’re from Germany,” Allison says, pointing to their registration designations. “God, they couldn’t find anything closer?”

“Bureaucratic politics,” Lydia says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. 

\---

There’s a house a few miles from the relay station, and it has stood empty for as long as Stiles can remember. It stays unoccupied for the two summers that Stiles works at the station in high school, and then part of the way into his first year working there as a legal adult. 

It’s sometime after the first heavy snow when he drives past and sees the lights on. There’s a car in the driveway, some old beat up station wagon, and the rusted, crumpled bot that used to sit dead in the front yard has been scrapped and is sitting at the edge of the road. 

The house starts to come alive bit by bit, through the winter. Someone hangs a porch swing, unusable at this time of year, and another car finds its way into the driveway. The scrapped bot vanishes, and in its place, by the end of the drive, a mail box goes in instead. It’s utilitarian and simple, and says _HALE_ on the side in neatly stenciled paint. 

“I didn’t know it was even habitable,” Scott says when he’s making dinner on one of the lazy days between Christmas and New Year’s. 

“I just assumed it hadn’t been condemned because it was too much work to take it down,” Stiles says, shrugging as he puts out dishes on their tiny table. “You know, let nature do the work.”

“Well, more power to them,” Scott says. “I wouldn’t want to live so far outside of town.”

Allison and Lydia come over for dinner, although it’s not much of a stretch. They all live in the newest block of housing, neat little rows of duplexes that have just enough space to be livable for a couple or a few roommates. 

“Got any resolutions planned?” Stiles asks while he and Lydia are cleaning up after dinner, Allison and Scott working on finding a movie to watch. 

“Same as always,” Lydia says, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “Get out of this town.”

“Corporate’ll snap you up one day,” Stiles says, and he tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “You’re too smart for the towers.”

“That’s a bit further than I was hoping,” Lydia says, frowning into the suds in the sink. 

“It’s five hours on a shuttle,” Stiles says. 

“It’s not down the street,” Lydia says, and spends a little too long staring at the plate she’s drying. 

\---

The coldest day of the winter is in February, on a dead silent Sunday, any sound swallowed up by the snow and the cold. 

Stiles and Scott curl up under a blanket in the kitchen by the still-warm stove, yelping at each other when their feet touch any other body part. 

“It’s officially time for a pair of socks,” Stiles says, but when he tries to stand up Scott grabs him around the waist and holds onto him.

“You’ll let all the cold air in,” Scott says, sounding genuinely worried. 

Stiles just has to laugh at him, and he noses against Scott’s ear, breath warm on his jaw and neck. 

“You either let me up for socks, or we have sex on the floor to warm up,” Stiles says. 

“Can I take the sex, but suggest we at least move to a room with carpet?”

They don’t make it any further than the kitchen table, Scott braced over Stiles on shaking arms as the table legs scrape against the floor on each thrust. 

“Fuck--” Stiles huffs out, wrapping his legs around Scott, rolling his hips up to meet Scott, getting as much of their skin touching as he can manage. “Fucking hell, _Scott_.”

Scott kisses his name out of Stiles’ mouth, his rhythm stuttering. 

\---

One of the people who belong to the _HALE_ mailbox finally appears in early spring, when the melting snow is running out of the mountains and into the valley and swelling the bay to the limits of its floodplain. 

She’s slight, narrow shoulders and pin straight hair that trails down her back, and she’s sitting at Stiles’ station. She has her knees bent up, her posture caught somewhere between hidden alertness and feigned calm. 

“You’re in my chair,” Stiles says. She turns to look at him, a pinched look in her eyes. 

“Finstock told me to wait here for you,” she says. Her voice is deeper than Stiles expected. 

“Do you need something?”

“You’re supposed to train me.”

“Oh.”

Stiles blinks at her for a few seconds, things slotting into place. He remembers Finstock saying that they were getting a new hire, that the extra traffic from the Main Belt meant that they needed another pair of eyes. Stiles had just assumed that they’d come in later though, when the flood waters had receded enough that the pass at Antioch wasn’t underwater and useable again. 

He rolls up another chair, leaning around the girl so that he can flip the systems on, screens humming to life on the wall. 

“Old tech,” the girl notes. “We had holos where I worked last.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re inside an old barn that’s reinforced only enough to hold the relay up,” Stiles says. “If the towers weren’t here, none of this crap would exist.”

“I kind of like it,” she says, and then extends a hand. “I’m Cora Hale.”

“Stiles,” he answers, shaking her hand. 

\---

Cora starts coming to dinner a night or two a week, crashing in the spare bedroom every so often, depending on the weather. In heavy rain or snow the road to the Hale house tends to get difficult, especially for Cora’s unwieldy little hatchback. Stiles had gotten a pick-up as soon as he could, for the express purpose of getting up the road to the station, mud or snow be damned. 

“How come we never see your brother?” Scott asks. 

“He’s not the most social of people,” Cora says, running a finger through the condensation on her glass. It’s summer again, and they’ve given up on the air conditioning, throwing open the windows instead. Neither Stiles nor Scott have cushy Company jobs in the towers, and they’re not in a hurry to spend their money on that much electricity. 

“Bring him by some time,” Stiles says. “I’ll talk enough for everyone.”

Scott grins at him, and sticks a finger into his own water glass to flick some at Stiles, getting a skwak out of him. 

Cora hides her own smile, staring down at her plate, head bowed and hair falling around the sides of her face. 

The power goes out as the sun is going down, the extra burden of people switching on lights plunging the power grid into darkness. Stiles rolls his eyes, but goes to collect flashlights and candles. 

“I should head home,” Cora says. 

“Not with the streetlights out,” Scott says. “You know you can always stay.”

The towers are still glowing in the distance, on their very own grid. They hulk in the twilight darkness, their bright arial lights pulsing. 

They light a giant three-wicked candle and set it on the coffee table in the small living room before piling the blankets and pillows off the couch - too hot for any of it. 

Scott and Cora take the couch, and Stiles sprawls on the hardwood, attempting to soak any coolness from it. 

“You know it’ll be 10 degrees colder within the hour,” Cora points out, raising her eyebrows. Stiles closes his eyes and smiles. 

“I’m an immediate gratification kind of guy,” Stiles says. 

The power is back on in the morning, and Cora and Stiles ride to work together, the radio playing the only staticy station they can pick up out here. 

\---

In September, the tower facility in Florida gets wiped out by a hurricane. It only leaves the Three Mile and Central Valley facilities, and so by October they’re installing full relays and accelerators in the foothills, giant half sunken wheels. 

“They look like crashed space stations,” Allison says, leaning back on the hood of Stiles’ truck. Out here, past the towers and almost to the hills, it’s normally quiet, but now the sound of construction is constant. 

“Kinda the same design,” Lydia says, scooting a bit further against Allison, her head on Allison’s shoulder. “Space stations are designed to be giant relays, in part.”

“It’s nice to have you around,” Stiles says, grinning. “You’re like a walking encyclopedia.”

“I do try,” Lydia says primly. 

“When’s your brother off shift?” Stiles asks Cora. 

“Soon,” Cora says, shrugging. “It depends.”

The shift change leaves the temporary parking lot flooded with migrant workers, bundled up in heavy jackets and hobnail boots. They’ll be gone by the first snowstorm, the relays and accelerators done, leaving behind the zinc plate housing tacked onto the edge of town. Even that will vanish eventually, neatly demolished by Company workers. 

They’re one of the last cars left in the lot when Derek finally crests the berm onto the cleared muddy field, his chin tucked into his scarf and his bag bumping against his hip on each step. 

“What’s with the welcome party?” He mutters, standing by Cora, his body angled to match hers. 

“Friends,” Cora says. “That’s Lydia and Allison, and this is Scott and Stiles.”

Derek regards each of them at the mention of their names, his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders hunched slightly. 

“So I hear you’re a linac specialist,” Lydia says. “I work in Two on the local accelerator, are you in One or Three?”

“Three,” Derek says after a pause. “I’m just over here temporarily.” 

“I don’t envy you,” Lydia says. “The drive out here sucks in bad weather.”

“Gives me something to bitch about,” Derek says, and there’s even the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh good, because we need more of that,” Cora says, rolling her eyes. 

\---

Lydia and Allison decide to get married because that way if the Company does decide to move Lydia to Matsumoto they’ll have to transfer Allison with her. Lydia’s technically still in training, but she outstripped her thesis supervisor a couple months back, and she’s started getting cryptic emails from corporate about projects at other tower facilities. 

They at least wait until the thaw, although it’s not a big affair. The Hale house is fixed up enough that it seems like a good enough place to have it as any, as neither of them want it to be at the town hall. 

They string LEDs between the trees in the backyard and set up a couple of benches. Stiles’ dad agrees to officiate, because it’s not like town is overrun with ministers and Lydia’s not particularly religious anyway. Cora gets talked into being the only bridesmaid, and even agrees to wear a dress. Lydia can’t stop her from wearing a beat up pair of plimsolls though, the only shoes Stiles has ever seen her wear besides her heavy boots. 

“Do you ever think about all this?” Scott ask Derek later, when there’s been enough alcohol consumed that Scott feels like he can ask that. 

“Don’t have anyone to get married to,” Derek says, shrugging a shoulder. 

“I have the utmost faith that you’ll find someone just as taciturn,” Stiles says, giving him a thump on the back. 

“Maybe I should find a dating site just for taciturn people,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs at that, tipping back in his chair, steadying himself with a hand on Scott’s shoulder. 

“You totally should, dude,” Stiles says, grinning. 

The drive home is made late at night, after Scott has sobered up at least enough to drive. They pass the wide, rolling fields where Scott had worked in high school, the bots stalled for the night, dark and still in the swaying wheat. 

“One day,” Stiles says, “we should get hitched. Not now, but like… I don’t know. In five years or something. We’re still too young for that crap.”

“We’re the same age as Allison and Lydia,” Scott points out.

“I feel younger than them,” Stiles says, and his voice is quiet. 

Scott reaches out for Stiles, and their hands find each other, fingers threading together. 

“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” Scott asks, and Stiles shakes his head. “Learn to sail. Or surf.”

“That’d be nice,” Stiles says, and he smiles into the dark. 

\---

Because Cora had come from inland, they take her to the shore. There is cold weather seeping into the world again, especially after the sun goes down, and the wind off the water necessitates jackets. 

The ocean stretches out in front of them, the hill tops of San Francisco standing ruined and dark as small islands. The flood and tsunami warning bots bob softly on the waves, out far enough that they’re mostly identifiable by their blinking lights. 

“During the winter the water will recede far enough that you can get a few beaches,” Stiles says. 

“But it’s massively cold,” Scott says. “Not really beach weather.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve never actually seen a beach. The water level out east is too high,” Cora says. 

“We’ll come back in January,” Stiles says. “With a shitton of layers.” 

They pick their way down the hill side carefully, the dirt and plants loose from a recent mudslide. The sun is going down, and it’s visible between the clouds and the ocean, far off on the horizon. It glows as a strip of orange, spreading far and wide. 

The drive home is quiet, only the noises of the truck keeping it from being totally silent. The cab smells like the ocean, the salt in the air clinging to their hair and clothes. 

(They go back just after Christmas and stand on the cold sand, wrapped up in parkas and gloves. Dry snow blows in swirls over the ground and Stiles throws rocks at the frozen waves. 

“It’s beautiful,” Cora says. “Cold as fuck, but beautiful.”

“Most things are,” Scott says. 

Stiles throws another rock and it skims across the ice. He throws his arms up in triumph when it rides the crest of a crystalline wave, a perfect half loop, and Scott smiles at him.)


End file.
